Body Image
by Catlover friendly-but-xplosive
Summary: Bruce Banner hates the Hulk, because the Hulk is gloriously male, and Bruce was born Bree. Warning: trans character. No trans hating.


**A/N: Kinkmeme prompt. Features a trans character; no transphobia in the comments please. And I know what I'm talking about when I talk about trans issues, because I date one and have for the last year and a half.**

The Hulk is a monster, a menace, an abomination, a danger.

This is why everyone else hates the Hulk. Why Ross tried to kill him so often. Why he had to leave Betty, Betty whom he loves still and who loved him, accepting him for who he was rather than who society and genetics said he was and ignoring the 'dyke' taunts they got for it, soothing him when he just wanted to charge at them and scream "I'm not a dyke!".

The Hulk is a man.

This is why he hates the Hulk. Not because of what he does, or is, or that he can't control himself, or that he is shoved to the back of his own brain, but because the Hulk is gloriously, amazingly male, and when he's the Hulk, everyone calls him 'he'.

Bruce (he'd chosen the name carefully; he wanted to present himself properly, and he absolutely hated being called 'Bree', but rather liked the 'B' sound) dropped his head onto his hands, feeling his jeans hang limply off him. He had bought jeans from the men's section, and no one had raised an eyebrow. It wasn't unusual for women to do that. But the jeans didn't fit properly; to fit his hips he had to buy a larger size which hung off him. His mother said he'd gotten her hips; his father said he'd make a good breeder.

As a child it never sounded right. When he figured out who he was he hated his father for it, but never had the courage to tell either of his parents. Then he was dragged off to jail for killing his mum, and he didn't have to worry about hearing it again. Except in his nightmares.

School was a nightmare. He'd see the boys, want to be with them, but knew he couldn't. He tried to play with them but they didn't want to play with a girl. He would be hard pressed to keep from crying when they called him that, and they called him a sissy for it.

He touched the chest binder. As soon as he'd had money he'd bought one and it had felt glorious to look down and see a flat chest, no sign of the dreaded C cups, even if it didn't fit him properly. Tony had made this one for him; it was tailored for him and fit perfectly. He'd practically burst into tears when he'd given it to him.

But in the back of his mind, always, was the fact that no matter how flat his chest was, the Hulk was in his head, he was male, and _he_ didn't need a chest binder.

But even though Tony had built him a binder, he still had trouble with the pronouns. He checked him out often, gaze lingering on his chest or hips, and Bruce would clench his fists until he caught himself. Sometimes Tony still referred to him as 'eye candy', and Bruce couldn't stand that. He had gotten used to it, but it still hurt.

He wasn't out to the press yet; he'd barely mustered the confidence to tell the Avengers.

Thor's reaction had been his favourite. He'd clapped him on the back and said, grinning broadly, "Shield-brother!" and he'd felt tears burning in his eyes, tears of utter joy. Thor had never slipped up on pronouns, and never understood why he was not to refer to his shield-brother as such in front of others. Really, Bruce just wanted to hug him, hold him tight, and never let him go.

Steve didn't know what to do. He still called him Bree half the time, slipped up on pronouns more, and was clearly uncomfortable about the whole subject. But Steve was still getting used to gay couples, so he got a pass on that, even if it did hurt Bruce. He understood that he wasn't the only one who had to deal with this.

Clint and Natasha just shrugged. Clint had been putting a new string on his bow and Natasha was cooking, and they didn't make a big deal of it. They too slipped up, especially in the field- "Where's Bree?" "She's north of that building"- but he rarely heard them. In the field he was the Hulk.

The Hulk everyone called 'he'. He remembered only vague snatches of when he Hulked out, apart from the glorious _rightness_ of the experience, but he remembered some radio snippets.

"He's heading south!"

"Thor, go with him, make sure he doesn't smash too much!"

He loved and hated those snippets of memory, because though they were speaking, indirectly, about him, they weren't- they were talking about the Hulk, and he hated the Hulk for that.

He resisted reverting for as long as he could, trying to hold to the rightness, but it never held. When the danger had passed, the Hulk retreated inside of him, and he was pathetic, scrawny, female Bree again, chest binder ripped and his breasts on display for the world to see.

Thor would cover him with his cloak and talk to him then.

"Friend Bruce, you did well," he said. Thor had never counted the Hulk as a separate person, and feeling that at least part of him was male helped as much as it hurt. "I shall take you home."

And with that he picked Bruce up, pulled him into his chest and took him back for a change of clothes and a new binder before they went to debrief.

Bruce loved, loved, _loved_ Thor, and once asked why he was so accepting of him. Thor just blinked at him.

"My brother has being a woman," he said. "He has birthed what many call monsters." His face darkened at that; Bruce could only imagine what having your nephews and nieces called monsters would feel like. "I see no reason to treat you other than how you wish to be treated," the god finished and clapped him on the back. "If you will pardon me, shield-brother, I have things to do."

And when he left, Bruce would always feel better about himself, if only for a short time. But it helped, when the self-loathing hit, when his father sneered at him for being not feminine enough in his memory, when he was called Bree, to remember that Tony made binders for him, Thor honestly saw him as Bruce (which was still hard to believe after so long), Natasha and Clint didn't care who he was as long as he did his job and Steve was trying, hard, to get it right, that they all accepted him for who he was.

He smiled as he felt the rough material of the binder under his shirt and thought about the appointment he had in a week that was hopefully going to get him on hormones (if they'd even work on him, but he refused to let himself think such pessimistic things). Because, for once, his life was going right.


End file.
